Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 1, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 January 1894 — AT WAR WITH HERSELF. [ARTICLE]

AT WAR WITH HERSELF.

Dm Story of a Woman’s Atonement, by Charlotte M. Brume. CHAPTER XXXI—Con tinned. As she stood there, Lady Fanshawe drew aside the velvet hangings, and entered the room. “Lady Chamleigh, are you here, alone?'she said. ‘Miss Dacre has been looking for you. You must be very tired.” “I wonder what she will say,“ thought Leonie, “when I tell her alii 1 Will she like tbe governess as well as she liked the Conn teas, or will she be the first to say that ‘1 never had any style and was quite unfit for my station?’ I suppose the world is all false alike. * “1 have never known anything go off so successfully as this ball has done, Lady Charnleigh. You have gained golden opinions, my dear child. I am inclined to think that fortune was not blind when she chose you for a lady of title and wealth.” “You think I make a better Countess than I did a governess?” said Leonie. “Yes. I will say more —there is no one living who would grace your position or fill it as you do.” “Thank you, auntie; now good-night, or rather, good-morning. Hark! The birds are singing and the sun will soon shame these lights. Au re voir, auntie —pleasant dreams!” Leonie swept up the grand staircase, her velvet train falling in graceful folds, her fair head erect and stately, a sniile on her lips, her whole energy bent on one object —not to give way. Florette was waiting for her. “How long can I control myself?” thought Leonie. “I feel burning tears close to my eyes, and I must let them flow; there is a burning pain at my heart, and I must be alone that I may weep it away.” Fiorette proceeded to remove the costly diadem, the necklace of diamonds, the ornaments, the rich trailing velvet robes, and Leonie stood quite still. She felt that if she either stirred or spoke -the torrent of grief must have its own wa'iy. “Shall I lock those diamonds up now, my lady?" asked Florette. Leonie looked at them—a few hours more and they would no longer be hers. She would feast her eyes on them while she could. “Leave them until the morning,” she answered slowly. “I am very tired; you can go now. Good-night." At hist she was alone—the long pentup sorrow could have its way. She looked the door, and. as the wild torrent of sobs rose to ner lips, she flung herself on the ground, not caring whether she ever rose again or not. So lately queen of one of the most brilliant fetes ever imagined, now she lay alone, battling as best she could with her sorrow and her despair. Deep, bitter sob 3 shook the prostrate figure; “it was too hard,” she said to herself. She had been so unutterably happy; and now it was all over. She could never enjoy one moment of life again. She wept until her tears was exhausted, and then something like the gloom and sullenness of came over her. The morning sun was shining and the birds singing their matin hymns, for the first time a loathing for sunshine and beauty came over her—she would fain have turned her face to the wall and died. A sensation of deadly faintness came over her, when she remembered that the had not tasted food since dinnertime on the previous day. She went to she window and opened it, thinking the fresh air might revive her. Dear Heaven, how beautiful it was! The sky was (me mass of pale pearl tints streaked with gold, the morning air was full of sweet and rarb perfume, the dew was sparkling like diamonds on the grass, the flowers were all at their fairest, the lilies opened their cool, white cups, the roses sent forth a cloud of perfume, and the birds sang as though there was no sorrow in the world. ) How fair and tranquil it was, the tall trees stirred so gently by the sweet Western wind, and the green boughs rustling with a noise like faint mußic! So faint, so still, so full of beauty! Her hot, tired eyes wandered over the flowers and trees. It was indeed an earthly paradise—could she leave it? No, a thousand times no! The cool morning air refreshed her; it seemed to drive away the fever that burned on her face and in her heart. All this fair prospect, these gardens, these grounds, the rich woodlands, the fertile meadows, the park, had all been hdrs yesterday. Could she lose them now? A thousand times no! Temptation comes to us at different times; it assails a man when through the open door of a brilliantly lighted room, he hears the click of the billiard balls —he forgets his invalid wife at home, and yields to it. It assails us in those moments when we are weakest. It came to Leonie Rayner that fair June morning while the dew lay on the grass, and the birds sang in the trees —a swift, sudden, terrible temptation that made her tremble with its force, that flushed her face, and caused her to raise her eyes to the fair morning heavens. “No, not that. Let me lose all—let me die—but keep my honor and my truth unsullied—oh, great Heaven!” A terrible temptation it was—one that left her powerless. She trampled upon it as she would have done upon some noisome reptile springing at her throat. She refused to hear it; then she faltered ever so slightly, and looked it in the face. What was it? The words seemed to grow clear to her mind as though they were distinctly spoken. “No one knows anything about the will—why mention it? Destroy it: there is no human being who will be any the wiser; destroy the will!” Again and again the words seemed to be repeated, “Destroy the will!” She oould have fancied the whisper reechoed from every corner of the room. The birds seemed to sing it, the wind to repeat it, and Leonie sat down deliberately to look her temptation in the face.

Would it be so very wrong after all to keep what she had longed looked upon as her own? It was her own; she was most certainly nearest of kin to the dead earl; and therefore she had a right to the title and estate. Was it just to deprive her of them because the earl had loved Paul Flemyng’s mother? That gave him no right to the lands and revenues of Crown Leighton. That it was an unjust will she felt quite sure; yet it was a will made when the earl was of sound mind, and everv law of honor and honesty compelled her to give it up. BRt Had not Lady Fanshawe said that no one would ever grace the position Leonie held as she did? Surely, if she was doing the best possible for'the fair name of the Charnleighs, it would be folly to make way for one who would perhaps not fulfill the duties haff so well. All that sophistry could devise she thought of; but there was no getting over the broad, plain fact that Lord Charnleigh had not left his fortune to her, but to some one else, and to that person it ought to go—honor was imperative. For her to keep what belonged to another was so clearly steai-

tag as for her to put her hand into a stranger’s purse. The money, the land, the title, were not hers, but another’s, and she had no possible right to them. “Yet,” cried the unhappy girl, despairingly, “I cannot give them up. I have teen so happy, I have loved my life so well, 1 cannot —Heaven help me —I cannot give them up!" As she turned despairingly away, her eyes fell on the little note Paul had given her, which as yet she had neither remembered nor read. CHAPTER XXX. “My Dearest “ Leonie, ”—the note began—“l will not tease you with a long letter. I did not intend to trouble you at all this evening, but that I can no longer conceal the deep, true, ardent love for you that fills my whole heart. I have seen you this evening so lovely, so radiant, so gracious, that it seems to me the whole world must be longing to take my prize away. Leonie, lam not a poet —I cannot woo you in musical song. lam a soldier, loyal and true, and gifted with no great eloquence. I could not tell you how I love you—l have no words at my command that can describe my love—but I/kneel at your feet, and pray you to be my wife. Be my wife, sweetest? I shall have earth’s fairest price then. I would rather call you mv wife, and know that I had won your love, than I would be crowned king; and, if you will trust yourself to me, I will make you happy. * With my sword I will win a name even grander than that of Charnleigh. I will give my whole life to you. You will not keep me waiting ior an answer, sweet—l could not tear long suspense. I shall come to hear my fate to-morrow. Yours, in life and death, Paul.” Swift, sudden, and terrible eame the temptatiou, and it mastered her. “Marry Paul and you will do him no wrong; marry him, and moneys and lands will all be his own then: tne will of the late Earl will be carried out, and yet you will be Lady Charnleigh. ” So spoke the subtle, tempting voice “There is no need to mention the will, no need to lose all that you value so highly, no need to say one word of having found it. Marry Paul Flemyng, and then you will endow him with all your worldly goods. It cannot matter how he becomes possessor of the estates, if he does possess them. It cannot matter whether they are yours, and you give them to him, or whether they are his and he gives them to you. Do not mention the will—you are doing no wrong. Paul will be master of Crown Leighton, as the late Earl intended him to be, and you will retain your independence.” A terrible temptation! She fought against it for a few minutes; from ner lips came the murmur of a prayer: “Keep me in all honor, oh Heaven! Keep me in all truth!" Then the subtle words rang in her ears once more: “Marry Paul Flemyng, and all will be completely his—as completely as if you showed him the will, and left yourself at his mercy. Why go through all the pain, why expose yourself to all the comments, the gossip, and the sneers? He says he would rather marry you than be a king; so that, in reality, you are doing him a kindness, and no wrong.” Her head drooped among the leaves and passion-flowers that climbed round the window. She buried her face in her hands. “I must marry him,” she cried, passionately. “I cannot give ud all this that my soul loves best. I cannot lose wealth, position, and grandeur, all at one blow. I cannot be a slave where I have reigned a queen. ” Then there came to her tetter thoughts. “I do not love him, and I do love Bertram with all my heart. I had better tell the truth and leave all to him. Bertram would marry me if I were a beggar.” But Bertram had told her he was not rich.

“If I did marry him," she said, “we should be poor. If it is, a 3 he says, a struggle for him now, what would it be were I his wife?” The grandeur, magnificence and luxury that she had always loved seemed to her now dearer than ever. If she might have kept her wealth, how it would have delighted her to lavish it on Sir Bertram! “We might have been rich and happy together; as it is we must part. I must marry Paul Flemyng, and restore to him what is his. ” So right and wrong battled in her soul—honor fighting dishonor—the better, higher and nobler nature struggling against the lower one. Sometimes right swayed her, and she resolved, come what might, she wouM be true to herself; she would give Paul Flemyng the will; she would give up at once the grand inheritance of Crown Leighton; she would marry Sir Bertram if he still urged her to do so; she would say gocd-by to the glorious life she had been leading lately; she would keep her conscience free and unsullied before Heaven. Then came a regretful vision of all she would lose, of the diamonds worth a king’s ransom, of this beautiful Crown Leighton, of the fetes and balls, of the homage and adulation that followed her. And wrong swayed her. She would not mention the will, she would carefully keep all knowledge of it from Paul Flemyng, but she would marry him, so that ample justice might be "rendered to him after all. And with this resolve Leonie drew a deep breath of relief. There would be no need to give up all, no need to proclaim herself a beggar and no countess, no need to leave thi3 fairyland; she could keep all and yet not do wrong—at least not much—for she could not aupe herself so far as to consider that she was acting rightly. So on that fair June morning, while the sun shone and the birds sang, she deliberately and willfully sold the peace of her soul, the tranquillity of her conscience, her honor and loyalty; she willfully bartered them for wealth and title. She raised her fair face from the dewy passion-flowers, and already it was changed; there was on it the expression of one who had a secret to keep; the clear, candid light that reveals the beauty of a truthful soul was no longer to be seen; she had on that June morning taken to herself a burden that she would never more lay down. For her resolve was formed. The battle was lost—loyalty, truth, and honor retired from the contest defeated; dishonor, untruth, pride, ambition, love of splendor and luxury had won the day. For this Leonie had parted with a birthright she could claim never more. She would hide phe will, but not destroy it—there was some kind of compromise with her conscience in this idea. She would hide it, and never mention it, but marry Paul Flemyng, and so restore to him what was his own. That was the resolve she made deliberately. She knew right from wrong—honor from dishonor—truth from falsehood; but the temptation had been too strong for her—it had mastered her, and she had weakly succumbed to it. “I will remain Lady Charnleigh, mistress of Crown Leighton, queen of the county,’’she said to herself, “and I will pot count the cost. ” Yet even as she said tfeq words she knew what the cost would be—the misery of her whole life; thora rose be-

►' ■ * fore her the grand prinoel.v head a&4 noble, handsome face of Sir Bertram—she must give him up. If she kept Paul Flemyng’s wealth, she must also keep his love; and yet she knew that she had no thought for any other save Sir Bertram. “I must lose my love,” she said, with a great tearless sob, “but I shall keep my fortune." She was tired and exhausted, she said to herself. She would think no more, but would keep to the resolve she had made, and let fate do its worst. She lay down on the bed, and, worn out with the storm of emotion, fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. The sun was high in the heavens when she awrke and found Florette standing by her with a tempting cup of tea. With that first waking moment came a rush of thought, what had happened? She had found a will and was no longer Lady Charnleigh. She gave a sigh of unutterable relief as she remembered that Bhe had decided upon keeping that will a secret and remaining at Crown Leighton. She experienced a pain words cannot describe as she remembered again that she must give up her lover and live without his love. Of what use was the bright sunshine? Suns would rise and set, vet the day would never bring him to fier again. An utter loathing came over her. “Draw down those blinds,” she said; “I detest the sun-hine, and 1 should be glad if any one could stop the birds from singing.” Shining of sun and song of birds were never more to bring happiness to the girl who had sold ner soul in order to keep the title of Countess of Charnleigh. [to be continued. |